Dreams

it is the dreaming
it is what stopped that is killing you
don't stop the coming of dreams
welcome them
let them sit on your easy chair
talk freely
yawn if you must
it is nearer to it
that door that opens
when you lose
that restraint of
consciousness
when playful as any child
you embrace every color
every scent
every form
of dreams that make you rest
from too much
thinking

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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